


Daniel Doesn't Do Dates ... Until He Does

by jdjunkie



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:46:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdjunkie/pseuds/jdjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks we’re friends. I want to be friends with benefits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daniel Doesn't Do Dates ... Until He Does

**Author's Note:**

> I set myself a 30-minute writing challenge. I missed my deadline by two minutes. I'll just have to live with it.

Daniel doesn’t go on dates.

He told me this while sitting watching a movie with me at the weekend.

“I haven’t dated since college. Dates are pointless, and what constitutes a date anyway?”

Clearly not sitting in a dark room, elbows lightly touching on the armrest and knees brushing while watching some miserable Scandinavian thing shot in black and white with barely readable subtitles. I wanted to see something light and uplifting, something in which shit gets blown up and the guy gets the gal. Instead, we get moody, windswept beaches and discordant piano music.

It isn’t my idea of a date. But it _is_ a date.

He thinks we’re friends. I want to be friends with benefits. Benefits like hot sex and illicit blowjobs in his office.

It _is_ a date.

He _will_ be mine. Oh, yes. He will be mine.

>>> 

So. Apparently, dinner at a fine restaurant isn’t a date either.

“You didn’t have to splash out like this for my birthday, Jack. I’d have been happy with pizza and wine and Sam and Teal’c.”

He would, too. I don’t _do_ foursome dates, though. I mean, team nights, yeah, bring ‘em on. Birthday dates with your sweet babboo plus two? No way.

“Eat your poussin,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Beautiful spatchcock,” he says, eyes fixed on the plate in front of him, examining the chicken as though it were a valuable artefact. It’s valuable all right; this is costing me a month’s pay.

And I wish he wouldn’t say “cock.” Mine leaps to attention as soon as the word falls from his adorable, pouty, full lips. What? Yes, I’ve noticed his mouth. God knows he yabbers enough with it. I’m kind of hoping he’ll put it to other uses at some point.

“Any dates on the horizon?” I ask, stunningly nonchalantly, considering.

He blinks at me while eating. He looks like a perplexed cow chewing the cud. I have to stifle a laugh.

“I told you. I don’t date. Sarah and I were all about the work and research. Sha’uri was a precious gift, whom I met and married on the first day.”

“You dated Sabrina Gosling.”

He swallows and reaches for his wine. “I took back some of the things Catherine left to me that I believed, as her niece, she should have. It wasn’t a date.”

“She made you dinner.” Daniel had told me all about it. He seemed surprised she wanted him to hang around.

“I hadn’t eaten and it was getting late. She was being thoughtful, that’s all.”

That’s all my not inconsiderable ass.  She wanted him. Who doesn’t?

“Dessert?”

He looks thoughtful. “I’ve got reports to write. I should get back. Thanks for dinner.”

_You’re welcome._

>>> 

Just so you know? Hiking in the foothills isn’t dating. Neither is a picnic in the park on a sunny Sunday. Oh, and add shopping for new pots and pans to the list. It seems coming back from the dead equates to a remodeled kitchen.

Pity he can’t remodel his private life to include one slightly used and abused Colonel with dodgy knees and a fragile heart.

We have been not dating for seven years now.

>>>> 

“What’s up?”

He rarely calls outside work hours.

“Just get here. Please.”

Never could ignore it when Daniel says, “please.”

I knock on his front door and walk in. He’s cooking. His shirt is splattered with tomato sauce from the pan of boiling pasta. There’s Puccini on the stereo. He hates Puccini but I love it. He looks flustered.

“What’s up?” I ask again.

“I think it’s a date,” he says, standing in his kitchen deliciously awkward and confused.

I smile and move in close. “You don’t do dates,” I say quietly.

“Can we just skip to the part where you take me up against that wall?” he says, licking his lips, eyes darting to a fabulously enticing empty bit of wall by the door.

“On our first date? Daniel ... you dog.”

And then we aren't talking at all.


End file.
